


Falling from the Wings

by RomancebyFaye



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Dancer John, Dancer!John, First Meeting, Love at First Sight, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, allusion to suicide, allusions to thoughts of suicide, ballet!lock, different first meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 03:58:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4005043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RomancebyFaye/pseuds/RomancebyFaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock arrives late at night to practice on the stage, but it's already occupied. Sherlock doesn't know who the man is who is currently dancing on his stage, but for some reason, he can't take his eyes off of him. In the span of a song and a raw and emotional performance that the man he is watching isn't even aware he is giving, Sherlock falls in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling from the Wings

**Author's Note:**

> So I have no idea if there is anything else out there like this, but when I thought of it, I had to write it down. Sherlock as a ballet dancer I have seen and loved, but what if John were a dancer, too? Not ballet, because that doesn't seem realistic, but how about hip hop or break dancing? 
> 
> John, just invalided home with an injury trying to claim back another little piece of himself that he's lost. And what if, while he was battling his demons Sherlock happened to see?
> 
> So this happened. I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> The song is 'Sail' by AWOLNATION. I recommend you give it a listen.

Falling from the Wings

  
  
Sherlock hefted his bag up tight over his shoulder, squinting with irritation at the side door. It was half past midnight and some damned idiot had left the entrance unlocked. Everyone knew the door wouldn’t lock unless you closed it softly. If it fell with it full weight, it was not only terribly loud, but it would bounce back open before the lock could engage. Most likely it was Anderson, off in a rush to meet up with Sally after a half arsed practice session. Didn’t they realize that any hooligan could come in and destroy the place? It hadn’t been two years since they had to replace the marley from the last time someone had left the door unlocked and vandals had destroyed it.  
  
He sniffed in satisfaction that the idiots had left behind more than enough evidence for Sherlock to figure out exactly who they were. One really shouldn’t stomp all over the place if one has shoes that are only sold at one hundred and twenty nine specialty stores. Once he had battered the DI Lestrade into taking him seriously, the vandals had been forced to pay for the new floor. It had also landed Sherlock with the job of the world’s only Consulting Detective. It was a nice way to fill his brain and his time in between performances with his troupe.  
  
Sherlock tugged the door open, his ire fanned by the faint light that washed out over the toes of his shoes and trousers as he realized even those had been left on. A thump of music greeted his ears, deep bass and electronically distorted voice interspersed with harmonizing voices and piano.  Definitely not the music for their current show, and no doubt left on to run all night.  
  
For god’s sake, did no one care about this damn place but him?  
  
He listened for the soft ‘click’ as he shut the door softly behind him. He shuffled past the wings, skirting around the heavy black velvet that soaked up the light during performances and shrouded those who stood behind them from the eyes of the audience. The song ended and Sherlock made to walk to the dressing rooms to change out of his suit and into his dancing gear. As the drape of velvet passed out of his vision, he caught a glimpse of the stage.  
  
He stopped, stone still as he realized that he was not alone.  
  
The lights they used during practice were much harsher than the lights used during performances. They had no filters, no colors superimposed over their wavelengths in order to influence the observer one way or another. They were harsh, unforgiving, casting every mistake in bright relief upon the eye. And standing in them was a man Sherlock did not know, and had never seen before.  
  
By all rights, he should be calling out to him, demanding to know what the hell he’s doing here and just as demandingly telling him to get out.  
  
But there is something about him, standing in the unforgiving lights, casting his shadow in multiple bursts beneath his taped feet, a pair of combat boots tossed just offstage along with a pair of jeans, what looked to be a taupe jumper, and a roll of tape. There is something in his stance that calls to a part of Sherlock he can only usually commune with while he himself is dancing, pushing his body and mind harder than they are wont to take - the flash of illumination burning past his buzzing, whirling brain to quiet with the bone deep satisfaction of completely subjugating his transport to his whims.  
  
He could feel it now, just looking on at the man who was oblivious to his presence, who was standing in the hot lights and thinking he was alone with whatever demons he had brought along  - anyone else Sherlock would have labeled as an intruder, but he had a strange feeling he was the one intruding.  
  
So instead of yelling at the stranger, or even making his presence known to him, Sherlock shifted back into the shadow of the velvet curtains, melding gently backwards as he observed the man on the stage.  
  
He is small, not overly so, but just on the shorter side of average. Sandy blonde hair is plastered to his head, the strands darkened with sweat. His body is compact, dense and sturdy looking, his legs spread apart slightly, his weight favored to the one on the right.  
  
He’s breathing hard, but not nearly as heavily as the sweat soaking his nondescript grey t-shirt to his back would lead one to think he should be. Tanned hands are resting on the hips of his camouflage pants loosely as he rotates his head slowly, stretching his neck gently from side to side, light glinting off the chain that would obviously be holding dog tags. He shakes his arms out, moving towards the front right of the stage before his posture changes into military rigidness.  
  
“Come on, Watson. Fucking get it together.”  
  
The harsh grate of the man’s voice almost causes Sherlock to jump. There’s something in it even Sherlock can recognize as a gut wrenching emotion. Desperation? Anger? Sadness or fury? All of them maybe?  
  
The song kicked up again, sharp electronic staccato fading to deep bass dub as words flit across Sherlock’s eardrums and the self proclaimed Watson bursts into jagged life against the piercing lights.  
  
His hands raise, moving together and against each other in sharp motions, opposing each other with a fixed distance, as if there was more between them than a mixture of oxygen, carbon dioxide, light, and dust.  
  
_Sail_  
  
He’s obviously not a ballet dancer.  
  
_This is how I show my love_  
  
His moves are rough and unrefined as he slides to the right, dragging the top of his taped left foot across the floor as he glides.  
  
_I made it in my mind because_  
  
He repeats the move to the left, a grimace snarling his features as this move is even less fluid than the one before.  
  
_I blame it on my A.D.D. baby_  
  
One each bass tone, Watson rolls his body in a way that should seem suggestive, but instead evokes an image of some innate struggle. All bowing strength and rolling shoulders, his left not nearly as fluid as his right.  
  
_This is how an angel dies_  
  
Another harsh glide across the floor, but when the top of his left foot leaves the marley, it pushes away to slip him into a slow, crouched turn.  
  
_I blame it on my own sick pride_  
  
He repeats the move in opposite, his left leg trembling faintly as it’s forced to bear his shifting weight. His face is briefly illuminated as he turns and Sherlock can clearly see pain.  
  
_Blame it on my A.D.D. baby_  
  
His body rolls again, his arms raising and falling as his hands drift through his sweat soaked hair, down his face, down his chest and now the roll of his hips is meant to be suggestive. He sinks down to the floor, his knees hitting it as he leans back, his teeth bared in a grimace as he pushes himself up abruptly with his left arm. His body snaps, his chest coming forward to balance the sharp move as he firmly plants his feet beneath him.  
  
_Sail!_  
  
The word repeats on a refrain, the man once again bursting into life as he leaps on each incantation - because to Sherlock, that’s what this is.  
  
_Sail!_  
  
He feels captured.  
  
_Sail!_  
  
Enraptured.  
  
_Sail!_  
  
He is caught in the rough siren’s song of the complexities of this ex-military man currently dominating the stage that Sherlock considered his territory at this time of night.  
  
_Sail!_  
  
His arms are extended, out from his chest and back past his shoulders as the man makes a leap with each word. His shirt is pulled taut over his chest, his knee folding in the air before he extends his leg to catch his weight. Over and over he leaps, an ancient rite flashing through him, using him to bring some ethereal plane into existence on this meager realm.  
  
And Sherlock watches, caught in the spell as the last leap turns to a soft spin and the man ends up at the front of stage left. Sherlock is unaware he holds his breath. Staring at the expression of sorrow furrowing Watson’s brows. He’s so close, just a few arm length’s away.  
  
His left hand is trembling, the shadows cast from the multiple angles of the lights shivering in stark black on the stage. Something in the nature of the movements changes here. They become slower, more controlled, but no less intense.  
  
_Maybe I should cry for help_  
  
He’s moving backwards, his face turned towards the wings fully and Sherlock desperately wants to remain unseen and become seen at the same time.  
  
_Maybe I should kill myself (myself)_  
  
At this line, the man mimes putting a gun to his head with the index and middle finger of his right hand, the thumb extended into the air. The look in his eyes as he pulls the imaginary trigger sends Sherlock’s heart plummeting. That is the look of someone who has contemplated the weight of continued living against the silence of death. Sherlock has seen it in the mirror before. The man falls sideways with the mimed shot, his left arm out to catch his weight.  
  
It doesn’t hold. Sherlock takes a half step forward when the man’s body thumps harshly to the floor before he remembers he shouldn’t be watching this.  
  
  
_Blame it on my A.D.D. baby_  
  
Watson rolls onto his back his hands bunched in fists.  
  
  
_Maybe I'm a different breed_  
  
“FUCK!”  
  
_Maybe I'm not listening_  
  
His fists slam down and Sherlock can hear the ragged edge of unshed tears as he screams explecitives and pounds the floor over and over.  
  
_So blame it on my A.D.D. baby_  
  
He covers his face with his hands, cursing and sobbing through the repeating chorus.  
  
_Sail!_  
  
A picture of a broken thing, used and cast aside. But Sherlock knows, Sherlock sees.  
  
_Sail!_  
  
The sweat on his brow, the black on his feet and hands and forearms - the man has been at this for hours  
  
_Sail!_  
  
He waits, watching, already caught by the mystery of the man.  
  
_Sail!_  
  
Sherlock is not wrong.  
  
_Sail!_  
  
By the end of the refrain, the broken man rises, his eyes red but dry from the palms scrubbed across them. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks when he sees the dirt that was deposited from the swipe of soiled hands.  
  
_La la la la la_  
_La la la la la oh!_  
  
He’s moving now, his feet working in sharp and deft movements as he whirls around the stage. Toe, toe, heel. Heel, toe, heel, toe, toe. Hopping and weaving with the music.  
  
_La la la la la,_  
_La la la la la oh!_  
  
He’s spinning so fast, his arms out as he moves farther away from Sherlock and - oh -how Sherlock wants to call him back, have him close enough so that he can see his face again.  
  
_La la la la la,_  
_La la la la la,_  
  
His circling is almost frenzied; his right leg working furiously beneath him as he spins on it, his arms drawing in close to whip his body around faster before he spreads them out, stopping his turn so fast his dog tags escape the confines of his t-shirt.  
  
  
_Sail!_  
  
The metal rectangles clink together as he moves, Sherlock watches them flash in the light as the man’s movements finally lose the staunch rigidity they had shown up til now.  
  
_Sail!_  
  
He plants his right palm on the floor, his body bending up and over his head as his legs spread out.  
  
_Sail!_  
  
With easy strength, his arm shifts the weight back, settling him to his feet.  
  
_Sail!_  
  
Once again, the man comes to rest close to the edge of where Sherlock is concealed. With a flurry of movement, he once again flips his weight, shifting it up an over his head with his left arm beneath him.  
  
This time it holds, and when his feet hit the floor a sharp shout of ‘Yes!’ accompanies them.  
  
_Sail with me into the dark_  
_Sail!_  
  
Sherlock wipes at his eyes, suddenly conscious that the ending of the song is coming back with the same echo from when he had walked in the door.  
  
_Sail with me into the dark_  
_Sail!_  
  
Sherlock sneaks backwards, not far enough that he can’t see the man on stage, but putting himself closer to the door.  
  
_Sail with me into the dark_  
_Sail!_  
  
He watches with fascination as Watson begins to somersault backwards across the stage, smiling the whole time. On the last one, he once more shifts his weight, leaping back to the center of the stage where he drops to his knees, folding backwards until his back rests on the floor.  
  
_Sail with me_  
_Sail!_  
  
Sherlock finally pulls himself all the way to the door, and he only hears faintly, “Fuck yeah, John Watson, you can do this. You’re gonna be okay.”  
  
Sherlock pushes the door open, letting it slam loudly behind him before he moves back towards the stage. There, John has made his way to his feet. He blinks up at Sherlock, obviously caught off guard at finding someone else here.  
  
Sherlock steps up to him, hoping that his absolute adoration isn’t showing on his face as he offers his hand.  
  
“Hello, the name’s Sherlock.”  
  
“Nice to meet ya. I’m John.”  
  
Sherlock smiles, and it’s soft and warm, just like the one John is giving him.  
  
“I’m just…I was just…I can go.” John says.  “Mike told me I could come by, but I didn’t know someone else would be needing the place.”  
  
Just then the music starts back up. Sherlock doesn’t let go of John’s hand, even though he knows he should. It’s just that it fits so perfectly, and Sherlock is desperate to keep John there.  
  
“It’s not a problem. Are you working on something? Mind if I watch?”  
  
He finally lets John’s hand go, watching as a slight blush darkens the shorter man’s cheeks.  
  
“Oh. Um, well I was just doing some improvisation. Nothing good.”  
  
Sherlock smiled more at that. He had seen world renowned dancers, dancers that were technically perfect, dancers that he would give his eye teeth to partner with. And none of them had awoken that dull ache in his chest like this unassuming John Watson.  
  
He flashed his best grin and waggled his eyebrows, “Sounds fun. Mind if I join you?”  
  
John stammered a little and blushed a bit more. “Well, yeah - I mean no! Please. I’d like that. Just don’t laugh at me, I’m a bit rusty.”  
  
"I won't laugh at you." Sherlock states, faintly aware that he sounds perhaps a bit too serious.

John stares up at him, an unidentifiable look on his face. Sherlock feels his heartbeat pick up as John studies him, unable to look away under the scrutiny.

After a few moments, John smiles softly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "No, you wouldn't, would you?"

**Author's Note:**

> Questions and comments are always appreciated.


End file.
